This might be an acceptable place to publish a little bit of introspection, a piece of writing I did in trying to make sense of the strange twists and turns my life has taken:

You may remember Romper Room, hosted by that hostess par excellence, Miss Flora: my first love. At some spot in every show, Miss Flora would talk about two little bees, Do-bee and Don't-Bee. She had pictures of them both, which she kindly shared with us. Do-Bee had good manners and put his toys away and didn't play in traffic and was generally a royal pain in the ass. Don't-Bee had a bad attitude and a cool way of talking (you could tell) and made the traffic stop for him. He was my kind of bee. But Miss Flora wanted me to emulate Do-Bee, and I was infatuated with her - she was in fact my first love - and so I tried my best to be a smarty-pants just like Do-bee, of whom she spoke so approvingly.
    Well, the years went by, and, though neither of us could put our finger on just what it was, something seemed to come between Miss Flora and me. It's not that those magic words, "Romper, Bomper, Stomper, Boo!", didn't still bring me running to the tv set - they did - but little things would sometimes inexplicably get on my nerves: "Why milk and cookies?" I cried out one day in exasperation. "Always milk and cookies! Why not lemonade and little cut-up sandwiches? Why not birthday-cake and juice?" Nobody understood what was wrong, not even me. Miss Flora said nothing, but just turned away, I suppose to hide the pain that must have been in her face.
    And then, one morning she was gone. Well, I had always known that she wasn't going to be there forever, and I told myself I didn't care. But the truth is, it was then I finally turned my back altogether on Do-Bee, rejecting him too forcefully for it to be just a matter of moving on. And I embraced my inner Don't-Bee with the passion of a returned lover. It soon seemed that Don't-Bee and I were one. I used bad manners, I didn't put my toys away, I even stuck my finger in an electric outlet.
    Occasionally, as I wandered back and forth across the street, and as far as the end of the block, I would think I saw Miss Flora, or imagine I heard her voice, and for a moment I would find myself trying to be just like Do-bee again. Then the illusion would pass, and I would be staring at a tipped-over tricycle, or an abandoned teddy-bear, and I would tell myself that it was Don't-bee that had been right all along ...